


My Lover's Lover

by mormolyce



Category: BioShock
Genre: F/F, anyway enjoy, but does that matter, i'm the only one who cares, no
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-05-11 17:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5635858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mormolyce/pseuds/mormolyce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Diane/Jasmine because I am trash. General trigger warning for depictions of abuse and a hella abusive relationship. Set in-universe but I changed a lot of things without realising it so. There we go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Her heels click in steady rhythm as she walks down the tunnel. She is dressed smartly despite the early hour, and though her conspicuousness unnerves her she does not bother looking behind; she wouldn't be able to see anything anyway. Even her shadow is hesitant to follow, darting from side to side like a spectre at every street lamp she passes. Dimming the lights at night time was her husband's idea. It gave the city a better sense of balance, he said, retained a semblance to life on the surface. But Diane knows Rapture has nothing in common with the world above.

She continues to walk, slower now, as the entrance of Athena's Glory draws into view. A few feet away from the door she pauses, uncertain whether she will be able to enter unnoticed. Andrei's cameras are growing by the dozen every day, and she doubts the residents of the complex retain any traditional sleeping patterns. She shuffles forward gingerly, and the metal door to the entrance hall glides open. At least she isn't at Mercury Suites, she reminds herself as she walks through. She doubts the residents there sleep at all. 

The building is as dark as the street and silent bar the steady tick of a wall mounted clock. Diane squints, straining to read its face. The lights turn on at 5AM; she has an hour to make her peace. In her bag is a crumpled stack of bank notes, folded into uneven squares and forced out of sight. Next to them is a scrap of paper with a room number scrawled on it. She wonders what sort of man houses his mistress within walking distance of his wife. These days she finds herself wondering sort of man her husband is more and more often. 

She clutches at the stair rail and begins her climb. The faint tap of her heels follows even now she's walking on carpet, echoing up the stairwell. Jasmine Jolene lives in Room 214; she saw the rent bill attached to Andrei's own write-up of last month's finances. But where 214 is, exactly, Diane fails to recall, and she panics at this when she arrives at the second floor, fingers running along the wall for want of finding a sign that might indicate her way. There's nothing, and she fumbles blindly, stumbling from each side of the corridor to better read the apartment numbers.

As she reaches the end of the hall she hears the metal clink of a security camera. She knows it won't attack her, it's programmed not to. And she knows Andrei has no reason to go through the footage. No one checks the recordings unless a crime has been reported, and if anything the light will provide her with better means to find her way. She still holds her breath as she steps out of the shadows. The camera swivels slowly over to her, pausing as it holds her in an unforgiving spotlight. She remains motionless. The camera's white light flickers to green, and it lethargically turns away to illuminate the opposite end of the hall. She exhales. 

A thought strikes her suddenly, and she walks towards the camera until she passes through and under its gaze, coming to rest against the wall on which it is fixed. There is a door immediately beneath the camera, painted white. In gold plating the numbers 2-1-4 have been hammered into the wood. Diane would sneer if she weren't so heartbroken. 

She stares at the plating, almost considering turning around and leaving. But one glance up at the Ryan Industries' security camera changes her mind. She hasn't come this far for nothing. She closes her eyes and pushes against the doorbell with knuckle of her index finger. The door bell chimes from inside. Diane clenches her jaw and opens her eyes, waiting for in anticipation. 

But there's nothing.

In a second fit of alarm she realises Jasmine might- hell, probably does- have a client with her. It's Wednesday morning and though Diane assumed people normally reserved Jasmine's 'services' for the weekend, now she is not so sure. The security camera swings on its hinges above her, oblivious.

At least Diane is sure it can't be her husband in there; she left him sleeping in the bed at home, with a half-hearted excuse scrawled on the back of a receipt. She contemplates retreat again. Her toes curl at the thought of such cowardice. She tries the doorbell once more.

This time there's a response. Light floods underneath the door frame, and there's heavy footsteps audible from the corridor. A woman's voice mumbles something muffled, and the apartment lock turns. 

"Mr. Ryan, if that's you-"

Jasmine freezes; so does Diane. She's never seen Jasmine until now, never listen to her voice or matched her gaze. She only learned of her existence through those damnable posters. On meeting her she is surprised. The angularity of Jasmine's features and the toughness of her skin are not qualities Diane had expected, yet for her height and broad shoulders Jasmine seems predictably able to fulfil the requirements of her job. Physically, at least. 

Jasmine has never met Diane either. She's heard about her of course, through Mr. Ryan mainly: how Diane frets and worries, how Diane's lost touch with his goals, how Diane's lost touch with Rapture. Jasmine's heard how she's so much more caring Diane, how she's so much more desirable, how Diane will never be like her. From the freshness of her face and the proudness of her posture, Jasmine finds truth in Mr. Ryan's words. Diane will never be like her.

"It's you..." she whispers. Her tone is one of distress, and even though it's hushed Diane almost winces at the coarseness of her voice. Instead she straightens up, still smaller than Jasmine by at least two inches, and clears her throat.

"May I come in?"

The security camera creaks. Jasmine glances up at it cautiously, before backing away from the door frame by means of invitation. Diane takes a half-step forward, then adds, "Or is there someone already here?"

Jasmine keeps her eye on the security camera and shakes her head.

"No... No, I don't take clients home any more..."

Her fingers are fiddling with the knot of her dressing down, pulling it tighter. Diane curls her lip and strides into the apartment. 

The room is warm, the rich glow of the table lamp bringing out deep mahoganies and reds. For a moment, Diane is transfixed by the grandeur. She runs her fingers along the top of a chair's velvet finish, footsteps finally silenced as she treads onto a rouged rug. It's a slap in the face to a woman who sleeps in a queen-sized bed on bare wooden floors, but then Andrei always hated mixing business with pleasure. The door clicks shut behind her and she pulls her hand away.

"Mrs. Ryan, please, this was never meant to happen-"

"I don't care what was meant to happen."

The poison in her own voice unnerves her. She's planned this moment out a hundred times, planned to quickly enter and leave, to make her demands heard and exit dignity intact. But now she's here all notions of control begin to escape her. As her willpower evaporates she boils over with sadness and anger, a concoction that bursts into a technicolour she's yet to understand. She wants to scream; she wants to cry; it's taking all her strength to stay standing.

"I have enough," she manages, voice hoarse. 

Jasmine leans against the wall, frowning.

"Mrs. Ryan, what-"

"The rent," says Diane, shaking herself into action, "I have enough to pay your rent. The next two months, you should be able to find somewhere else after that." She opens her bag and reaches inside. "And in return you don't see him again." She pulls the money out in fistfuls, stuffing uneven wads under her armpits in order to hold more. "You _never_ see him again." She never realised the height of Rapture's inflation until now. "And you never speak to him again. You won't need to- Blast!"

The last note catches on the clasp of her bag and rips in half down the centre. She pulls it out with her fingernails and lets it fall to the floor. Then she slams the purse shut and gathers the money together. Diane holds the stack of papers outwards, shaking them as if she were tempting a dog with a bone. Jasmine looks at her uneasily. 

"Mrs. Ryan," she begins slowly, "I don't think you-" 

"You don't think I what? You don't think I understand?" Diane replies, voice slipping. "I understand perfectly. You're nothing to him, do you hear me?" She can feel her eyes watering. She blinks hard."He wants you for one reason only, and you're pathetic enough to give it to him." Her lip starts to tremble."He doesn't care about you, you do know that don't you? You do know he doesn't care."

"Mrs. Ryan," begins Jasmine, unfazed only through experience, "You don't know what he'll do if I make him stop. Even if he finds out you're here you he'll-"

"Just take the damn money!"

Jasmine flinches at the sudden whiplash reply, but notices a change in Diane's demeanour and hesitates. Her jaw is clenched so tight it might snap in two. Her eyes are open wide, barely blinking as their centres grow wet. Diane McClintock's not angry; she's heartbroken. Jasmine pushes away from the wall and stands a little straighter. She walks slowly forwards, bare feet lending her movements an excruciating silence. In frozen torture Diane does nothing. Jasmine reaches upwards, and places both hands around Diane's own. Diane watches, and her voice is a whisper.

"Please..."

Jasmine shakes her head, and slowly lowers their hands. 

The illusion shatters.

"Don't touch me!"

Diane wheels away, balling her fists against her chest, causing the money to crumple in between her palms. She cries like a mother at a funeral, with ugly sobs and gasping breaths. In vain she tries to hide in the fabric of her clothes, hunching over and burying her face in her crook of her sleeve, but the tears just slink down her neck onto the collar of her shirt. 

Jasmine bites her inside cheek. She reaches into the pocket of her nightgown for a handkerchief. For a moment she holds it in the pocket, waiting to see if Diane will stop of her own accord but she doesn't. After another minute Jasmine moves to face her and presents her hand, offering the handkerchief to her wordlessly. Diane glances up, eyes bleary and stinging from running mascara, then takes it anyway. As her crying ceases she straightens, tucking the money back under her arm so she can better dab her face. She rubs around her eyes, then under her nose, sniffling into the handkerchief to clear the mucus. She even wipes at her neck, desperate to remove the cold damp. When she is certain she is halfway presentable, she holds the handkerchief out in Jasmine's direction. 

"You keep it," says Jasmine. Diane nods and tucks it into her purse. Her breathing is level now, and though her nose and eyes are still red, the staunchness of her posture is back. She begins folding the money and returning it to her purse. 

"I hope you know what you've done," she says, "I hope you're proud of yourself."

Jasmine's brow curls.

"Mrs. Ryan please, you've gotta know how sorry I am, this was never meant to happen, Mr. Ryan said-"

"Oh, please," retorts Diane, shoving the last of the money away. "If you were that sorry," she continues as she looks up, "You would've taken the money." Her purse closes and she folds her arms, waiting expectantly for a reply.

"I...," Jasmine fumbles with her words, praying Diane will understand, "...can't."

"Oh really?" Diane replies, "And why is that then?"

Jasmine looks away.

"There, you don't have a reason, do you? I know girls like you, I've seen your type before," Diane uncrosses her arms to jab an accusing finger in Jasmine's direction. "You'll pick a man with money and crawl all over him like a mosquito. Try and suck the money out his veins like it's blood. Well, I don't know what you're playing at, but you picked the wrong man if you thought my husband-"

"I'm scared."

Diane blinks as Jasmine matches her eye. Her residual anger begins to dilute with confusion, and she frowns uneasily. 

"You're lying."

"Sander won't let me leave," says Jasmine with a shake of her head, "He says I'm tacky but Ryan likes me. And my boss at Eve's Garden would kill me if he thought I was quitting, and..."

"And what?"

Jasmine rolls her lip inwards, weighing up the pros and cons. She exhales. 

"Maybe you shouldn't know."

"Know what!?" 

For a second time Diane's reply is whiplash, and again Jasmine winces.

"Mr. Ryan is... a very troubled man," she replies quietly, "He's very protective."

"And yet he still let's you work at Eve's Garden?" snips Diane, "Unlikely."

"He told me he doesn't like to get cheated out of his money."

"What's that suppose to mean?" Despite her efforts at contempt, there's genuine curiosity in her voice.

"He only lets me stay here because he wants me to be safe," Jasmine replies with a sigh. "He doesn't give me money for food, or to pay the bills. And if he threw me out me I wouldn't be able to get work nowhere. But then if he got angry enough try and throw me out then..."

"Yes?"

"Well, I imagine trying to find work would be the least of my worries Mrs. Ryan."

The air catches in Diane throat before she's able to form a reply. When she speaks her voice is hollow.

"What are you saying?"

"What do you think I'm saying Mrs. Ryan?"

"I don't know!" replies Diane, exasperated. Jasmine doesn't respond, waiting patiently for Diane to put two and two together. "Look, I know he's got a temper, I'm not stupid. But he would never do anything to... He would never hurt anyone like that. And certainly not you," she adds bitterly. 

"I think," continues Jasmine carefully, "Maybe he would."

Diane shakes her head, but thinks back to all the times she's seen her husband in a rage. All the times he's spoken about Fontaine; all the times he's spoken about those ruining Rapture; all the times he's been angry with her... Her eyes widen.

"Has he hurt you?" she whispers.

Jasmine tugs again at her dressing gown, undoing the knot and letting it hang open. She pulls the fabric to on side, then lifts the hem of her night gown to her waist. There's a deep dark bruise running from under the hem down to her hips, blurring her skin with hues of purple running into muted greens. The area below her ribs is still splattered with small dots, and Diane can see a sister bruise on Jasmine's back at the base of her spin, where the tender skin cannot bring itself to tan beyond red and purple. She falls hard into the chair behind her and stares at her feet, eyes fazing in and out of focus. Jasmine remains standing, lowering the fabric and retying the dressing gown with trembling fingers. When Diane eventually speaks her voice is so quiet Jasmine can barely hear her.

"How long has this been happening?"

Jasmine sits down, leaning into the couch opposite.

"Not very often," begins Jasmine, wincing as she crosses her legs, "And he always apologises. Most of the time he's almost... sweet."

"Oh, wonderful," Diane replies limply, looking in the opposite direction.

"It's just when he's get mad, you know?" continues Jasmine, "When he gets all fired up, I just..." 

"You don't know what he'll do," finishes Diane, meeting Jasmine's eye. Jasmine nods slightly, and Diane sighs. There's a beat where neither of them says word. Diane watches Jasmine and Jasmine watches Diane. They're the only women in the world who know this much about Andrew Ryan. Then, suddenly, Diane straightens up. She leans back in the chair, arms and legs folded. Her voice is still quiet, but there's a touch of resolve that was absent before. "How often does this happen? Every time he sees you? For that matter," she asks, "How often does he see you?"

"Do you really want to know, Mrs. Ryan?" replies Jasmine, leaning forward in earnest. 

"I'm his wife," snaps Diane, "I have every right to know. And don't lie to me," she continues, "God knows you do too much of that as it is." Her hurt is no longer grating, and unlike before, Jasmine finds the anger almost reassuring. 

"We... That is... He doesn't come every week. He's very busy, you know?"

Diane snorts.

"And he's not rough with me every time," Jasmine continues, elaborating with her hands, "Only if, you know, he's had a difficult day, or I do something he doesn't like, he... Can be kinda unpredictable."

"When did he last see you?" 

"Two days ago."

"And that's when that happened?"

Jasmine nods.

"I see," says Diane. She hesitates, thinking. "Next time..." she continues slowly, "I can't believe I'm saying this but... Next time- if there's a next time- next time this happens... tell me."

"What?" 

"Next time he hits you, tell me. I'll... I'll be able to do something about it, I think. He respects me, he listens to me. I don't know if I'll be able to be exact but... I'll think of something. And if I can't stop him seeing you then... Oh, I don't know! Damned if I can't do something."

"Mrs. Ryan..."

Diane stands up, decision finite.

"I presume you have the number for our apartment? I've never heard your voice on the phone, but then I doubt you make a habit of calling during waking hours."

Jasmine shakes her head, ignoring the remark but not oblivious to it. 

"My boss at Eve's Garden has it."

"Then..." Diane looks around. "Oh blast it all, just get me a pen and something to write on."

Jasmine stands up instantly, before scurrying over to the bureau in the corner of the room. Diane follows, pulling the ink pen and envelope out of Jasmine's hands before she has a chance to pass them. She leans on the bureau to scrawl the number down, then hands both the pen and the paper back to Jasmine.

"There."

"Mrs. Ryan, I appreciate what you're trying to do but-"

"But what? He's my husband. I have a responsibility."

Jasmine smiles nervously.

"I know but...I don't think this...Will be helpful."

"Why on Earth not?"

"Well, sometimes, the reason he gets mad is..." Jasmine trails off again, but from her expression Diane finds she already knows what she's about to say. 

"Go on," she encourages gently.

"Well, it's you, Mrs. Ryan."

Diane clenches her jaw, but finds the information comes as less of a shock than she was expecting. 

Jasmine takes a small step backwards.

"Not always," she continues hastily, "In fact usually it's work or Fontaine and stuff like that but... You know."

"No, I do not know," replies Diane harshly, though she knows she's lying. "What the hell am I meant to do then? My husband is running around beating show-girls, and you're telling it's my fault? I- Damn!" Diane turns away, then continues to talk to Jasmine over her shoulder. "And I suppose if he even found out you told me this he'd-"

"Yes," Jasmine replies shortly. 

"Should... Should I be more attentive?" Diane mutters, furrowing her brow with almost comedic effect. "Would that stop this?"

"I don't know," says Jasmine, replying even though she knows full well further attentiveness is the last thing Mr. Ryan wants from his wife. 

"Why am I even considering helping a whore for goodness' sake?" Diane turns to face Jasmine again, fingers curled around the strap of her purse. "Don't answer that. Just, keep the number. It might... I refused to believe there's nothing I can do... And I won't tell him this. Any of this. You can depend on me for that much at least."

Jasmine nods. 

"You should go," she says, indicating to the door, "They'll be turning the lights on soon."

Diane pauses.

"You're right." 

She marches over to the door and turns the lock. Jasmine follows. 

"I meant what I said," says Diane, "About the number. And about... Just keep the number."

The door slides open in front of her. Diane strides into the darkness. She does not look back.


	2. Chapter 2

Jasmine finds no need of the number for some time. Mr. Ryan is surprisingly calm in all of their following encounters, and though it is evident life has been grating, he seems more tired than angry. Diane's visit was something of a wakeup call. Outside the world may be crumbling around their ears - both literally and metaphorically - but inside apartment 214 all must rosy and well. For the first time, Jasmine realises she is puzzle piece in Mr. Ryan's paradise, and not a person of her own authority.

It doesn't help that Anna is talking with her less and less. These days all she's interested in is upsetting Cohen, or Ryan for that matter, and Jasmine can feel her friend slipping through her fingertips. She doesn't seem to realise the situation she leaves Jasmine in. The more Anna continues her assault on Cohen and Cohen continues to squeal to Ryan, so Jasmine is expected to cut off ties with her friend altogether. She doesn't, of course, but now she only calls Anna when she is in need of escape. Anna talks and talks, and Jasmine finds herself so absorbed she occasionally forgets her own misfortunes. But their conversations are one-sided debates on Anna's lack of faith in the council, and Anna's interest in Jasmine's position fleeting. Jasmine hasn't even told her about Diane, no matter how much she longs to discuss the meeting.

She finds it plays on her mind more and more as the weeks pass by. Initially she regards the exchange as almost dream-like; a hazy experience with a simplistic moral message. But each time Mr. Ryan visits her, she finds herself wondering where Mrs. Ryan is, what Mrs. Ryan is doing while her husband languishes his affections elsewhere. She does her best to dismiss it, especially once Mr. Ryan notices how distant she is, but the feeling just won't leave her. She keeps seeing Mrs. Ryan, hunched over, crying in the corner of the living room. It's made everything far more real.

And then fate brings Mrs. Ryan back to her anyway.

It's late, later than Mr. Ryan usually sees her and colder all because of it. She has to cancel a client, come racing home from the graveyard shift at Eve's Garden on her manager's hastened instructions. It's embarrassing, running through the streets knowing full well there's barely anything under her coat. At least she found her normal shoes. Still, people stare, especially when she impatiently waits for a bathysphere next to her own poster. By the time she reaches her apartment she's red faced from her journey and cringing with discomfort.

The door is unlocked. She walks through it unsurprised. It is, after all, Mr. Ryan's apartment, and she's knows he holds a key. He's sitting in the chair, the same one where Mrs. Ryan steeled her resolve all those nights ago, and his cigar is spouting a thin trail of smoke upwards. He taps it with his index finger, and ashes drop into the rug.

"I'm sorry to call on you so late," he says disparagingly, "You don't mind, do you?"

Jasmine hangs at the door frame, then shakes her head.

"Of course not."

"Good."

She closes the door and sits on the couch opposite, resting on the edge of the cushion. Mr. Ryan takes another drag of his cigar, and smoke plumes towards the ceiling.

"You look awfully red in the face Jasmine."

"Yeah I was uh, I was running," she laughs nervously, and scratches at the back of her head, "I wanted to make sure everything was okay." She smiles at him. His lip twitches.

"I see."

"Everything is okay, isn't it Mr. Ryan?"

"Why are you still wearing your coat?"

"Uh- You, you caught me when I was working, that's all. And I was in such a rush to see you I didn't think about changing. Silly right?"

"Yes, it is rather."

Jasmine opens her mouth but has nothing to say. She shuffles uncomfortably on her seat. Mr. Ryan taps on the cigar once more, and ash tumbles into the rug. He grinds it into the fabric with his heel.

"I presume by 'work' you mean Eve's Garden?"

Jasmine nods slowly. Of course she means Eve's Garden. He already understands where she works and what she does, and she knows it. He has her manager's phone number for God's sake. He just wants to make her say it out loud. She won't give him the satisfaction.

"It will always be a mystery to me," he continues, standing up and pacing, "Why you choose to work in that place." He doesn't look at her while he talks, and waves his cigar in the air with every punctuation of his speech. "I give you so much, Jasmine. I give you a home and a status, I give you a role in society, a role next to me no less, and yet you continue to fritter away among the sort of people that hire prostitutes."

He leans forward, stubbing out the cigar in an ashtray below the lamp.

"I almost think you prefer spending your time with them instead of me."

"Of course that's not true Mr. Ryan!"

"Really? Because that's not how it seems to me. How much time do you spend at Eve's Garden oppose to here, the home I gave you? How much time do you spend frolicking with whores oppose to the man who made you? How much time do you spend fucking your drugged up clientèle when the very man who owns this city is at your beck and call? Do you really detest me that much?"

Jasmine doesn't look at him. She stares at the floor, petrified. He snakes one finger under her chin, pushing it upwards until they're faces are inches apart. She can smell the smoke on his breath when he speaks.

"Answer me, Jasmine."

Jasmine tries to speak, but no words can form. She croaks, straining to form a sentence, anything comprehensible at all, but the task is impossible. Eventually, Mr. Ryan sighs, and pulls his hand away.

"Never mind," he says, standing upright. "I don't expect you to understand how it feels to have the weight of this city pushing down on you."

Jasmine shakes her head, eyes watering.

"I thought not."

He sits down again, relaxed now, and leans one elbow on the arm rest, resting his head in is palm. He mutters to himself. Jasmine can't even hear him over the sound of her own heartbeat. Only at the tail end of his rambling does she catch onto the words.

"And what with this ridiculous business with Fontaine, I don't know what to expect. I'm a laughing stock after today."

"Is- Is that what was upsetting you, Mr. Ryan?" Jasmine squeaks quietly.

"I beg your pardon?" asks Mr. Ryan, looking up at her sharply. Jasmine goes pale.

"Is- Is Fontaine the reason you where so upset?"

"Upset? Upset!?" He stands upright, catching the corner of the table with his knee, sending the table lamp teetering. The whole room sways as the lampshade wobbles, and Mr. Ryan's shadow clambers onto the ceiling, twisting into Jasmine's own.

"My own city is laughing at me and you have the nerve to mock me for being 'upset'!?"

"I only-" Jasmine stammers, "I thought maybe Fontaine had-"

"Do not speak to me about that man!"

And then everything happens at once.

The table lamp finally lurches off balance and falls to the floor. The filament of the bulb fizzles then goes out, as the glass splinters into the rug. The ash tray falls off too, sliding and landing on top of the lamp shade, ripping through the fabric and hitting the floor with a dull thud.

It all means Jasmine doesn't see Mr. Ryan approach. She doesn't even the feel the initial collision of his palm against her face, but the whiplash knocks her off kilter and throws her into the seat couch. She catches herself, barely, and sits leaning on her arm as her the joints in her neck start to ache with agitation. The pain is swiftly followed by a stinging on her skin and a ringing in her ear, and she can feel her face growing hot where as blood rushes to the wound. She stares unblinking at the floor, and only then does the darkness she's now within become apparent.

Above her Mr. Ryan breathes heavily. He doesn't speak, and Jasmine doesn't dare crane her neck to look at him. She can feel him contemplating her, staring at her, deciding what to do next. Tears slither down her face, gliding over fresh-formed bruises before they crawl over her neck to dampen the collar of her coat. She hears Mr. Ryan's footsteps and the sound of the door opening. When it fails to close she looks up. Mr. Ryan watches her uneasily, swallows, and shuts the door behind himself.

Jasmine does not know how long she is unmoving.

Minutes pass as she sits in obscurity. She tries to think straight but can't. She keeps running her fingers over her cheek, wincing every time but unable to stop herself. When finally she stands she's greeted by the crinkling of broken glass beneath her feet, treading it even deeper into the carpet. She thanks God that she's still wearing her shoes. The light switch isn't hard to find. It flickers before turning on, and the mute yellow glow dampens the rich colours of the furniture, tinting the reds to a sickly dull hue. The room is a mess. The carpet's ruined beyond repair, and though the base of the lamp is intact every other inch of it is ruined. She put her hand to her cheek again, but pulls it away when she feels herself about to cry.

She hurries off the rug and into her bedroom, where the ceiling light is softer, and crouches to reach into the bottom draw of her night stand. She pulls out a small metal box, not sturdy enough to be a safe, but with a combination code nonetheless. The lid pings open once the code set. Diane's phone number sits on top of a small stack of hundred dollar bills. Jasmine takes out the number and tucks the box out of view once more. She scampers to the phone in the living room, keeping the light of bedroom lit, and dials the number standing upright, even though the phone rests on a table at the far end of the couch.

The dial tone rings hollow in her ear, and she shuffles where she stands, suddenly fearing someone other than Diane may answer. She counts the number of tones, promising herself if it reaches ten she will hang up. On the ninth ring Diane picks up.

"What do you want? Don't you know what time it is?"

Jasmine is winded. She swallows, then pulls herself together.

"Diane?"

"Yes? Who is this?"

"It's Jasmine."

There's a pause at the other end of the phone. Then Diane breathes out and offers a quiet 'oh' of understanding. It crackles through the phone and Jasmine goes to swap ears, before the plastic on her skin causes her to twitch and she switches it back again.

"Is he still there?" whispers Diane quietly, as if she was speaking in the same room.

"No."

"... Would you like me to be there?"

"That... Would be nice."

"I... Do you think I'll bump into him in the corridors?"

"I don't know," says Jasmine, exhausted, tears beginning to drip down her face again despite herself. She looks round at the room, glancing gingerly at the rug. "I don't know where he's gone." 

"Well he's not here, that's for sure," replies Diane snidely. The phone crackles in Jasmine's ear as Diane moves it in her hands. Eventually she seems to draw to a conclusion. "Don't move. Give me- I don't know, give me fifteen minutes, and if I'm not there it means I've seen him in the corridors and gone home, okay?" 

Jasmine nods, then remembers she's talking on the phone and offers a meek reply of agreement. Diane hangs up without speaking further, but Jasmine does not immediately relinquish her grip, listening to the continuous buzz of the empty dial tone. She doesn't know what else to do. Now she's standing she certainly doesn't want to sit back down, and the faint ringing in her ear hasn't left her. She doesn't feel queasy enough to call it concussion but she's not sure how else to describe it. Even if it were, what could she do? Anyone at the hospital would report back to Ryan in an instant, and then some other poor sap would get the blame. Or worse. She hopes Diane will hurry.

The sound of the doorbell is a sweet release. By now Jasmine's relinquished her grip on the phone handle and is leaning against the wall. At first she jumps at the chime, then she remembers who it is and calms. She slides the door open slowly, giving Diane just enough room to step through, and shuts it quickly behind her.

Diane looks the carpet before she looks at Jasmine. She scans the living room, surveys the damage to the furniture, and when she finally glances up at Jasmine she does a double take, unable to look anywhere else. Jasmine smiles weakly. In truth she has half a mind to study Diane's appearance closer too. She'd never imagined how Diane would look without makeup, dressed in ugly brown shoes and a slightly too large coat. It's a mystery to her how someone of Diane's status could come to possess such unattractive clothing in the first place.

"How long ago was he here?" she asks, reaching up to touch the bruise.

"I don't know," replies Jasmine, pulling away and out of Diane's reach. Diane drops her arm and clasps her hands in front of herself. She looks around the room once more, then glances back at Jasmine. Jasmine can feel herself about to cry again and looks at the floor.

"Have you put any ice on it?" offers Diane.

Jasmine shakes her head.

"You should probably put some ice on it."

Jasmine nods. She feels one tear escape the corner of her eyes and bites her lips. Diane folds her arms, visibly uncomfortable.

"Maybe there's some in the kitchen?"

Jasmine nods once more then turns to walk into the kitchen. It's a small apartment, with bedroom and kitchen doors both backing onto the lounge and a bathroom en suite, but Diane follows at her heels nevertheless.

The kitchen is simple, with plain tiling and hastily painted white cabinets. The walls are bare too, painted white like the cabinets, and the small dining table an ugly unpolished pine. There's no lampshade over the ceiling light. By now Jasmine's used to the transition, the almost humorous conversion from wealth to poverty, but Diane seems surprised. She hovers in the doorway as Jasmine stoops to open the freezer, then stands bolt upright as another rush of blood floods her brain. She takes a small step back, balance uneven, and grasps at the air for balance. Diane panics and all but runs into the room, taking Jasmine by the elbow.

"Uh, I'll do that. Don't worry you just, you just sit down right here." She pulls out a chair from the kitchen table and Jasmine lands on it heavily. Once she's seated Diane releases her, and turns to search through her freezer.

"It's not too bad as long as I'm not moving," says Jasmine quietly, talking to Diane's back. Diane murmurs a reply but Jasmine doesn't quite catch it. She looks up and talks to Jasmine over her shoulder.

"You don't mind if I use frozen peas do you?"

"No."

"I don't understand why he doesn't keep you better stocked," continues Diane as she stands, packet of frozen peas in her hands. "This entire rooms is like an damn operating theatre, and then out there," she gestures to the living room, while wrapping the frozen peas in a dish cloth, "Is like a palace."

Jasmine doesn't reply, and tries to shield her eyes from the blinding harshness of the bare bulb mounted on the ceiling.

"Here."

Diane holds the towel out to her, and Jasmine clutches it readily, resting her bruise against the swaddling. Diane sits down opposite and watches her carefully. The cool of the package calms Jasmine's skin, and soothes the swelling she is already beginning to feel. She's so absorbed in the sensation it's not until later she realises that the ringing in her ear has stopped completely. Minutes pass, then she looks up at Diane. She has questions, Jasmine can tell, but for whatever reason she isn't going to ask them. Jasmine sighs and readjusts the pack.

"I just don't know what I'm going to do about carpet," she says meekly.

"Oh, don't worry about that," replies Diane, "I know someone who'll clean it for you, no bother."

"Really?"

"Of course."

Jasmine glances doubtfully into the living room.

"Oh please," continues Diane with a tsk, "You don't think someone can play host as much as me without being able to call in a few favours, do you?"

Jasmine smiles and shakes her head.

"Besides, I'll claim I'm calling on behalf of Andrew, and that'll get the work done double time." She sees Jasmine's smile drop and quickly changes subject. "Does it still hurt?"

"Not as much as it did."

"I'm glad to hear," replies Diane gently, "You don't um, you don't happen know what set him off, do you?"

"No," says Jasmine with a shake of her head, "I mean I could tell something was up from the way he was talking to me but when I tried to find out he got all mad and then, well..."

Diane exhales, and leans back in her chair.  
"Do you know what it was?" asks Jasmine, leaning forward.

"I've got a good guess," replies Diane, leaning into the table again, "He sent a search party out to Fontaine's today, something to do with smuggling. From what I heard it went downhill pretty quickly. Fontaine all but gave them a guided tour."

"So he was sore about that," Jasmine mumbles.

Diane nods.

"Probably. Why in God's name he came round here and took it out on you and your carpet I do not know."

Jasmine sighs and places the ice pack against her bruise again.

"I don't know why you were trying to make conversation," Diane continues, "If you've seen him in a rage before you know it's no good trying to get any sense out of him."

"It's my job," retorts Jasmine sourly.

Diane raises an eyebrow in judgement.

"I don't expect you to understand," mutters Jasmine quietly.

"Good," says Diane, "Because I don't."

She leans back in her seat, and Jasmine pushes the pack tighter onto the bruise. She wishes she'd never rung Diane in the first place now, but Diane sits resolutely with her arms folded, showing no signs of leaving.

"All I'm saying is," she continues "If you really knew my husband that well, you would never have allowed this to happen."

"And if you really knew your husband," replies Jasmine with suddenly ferocity, "None of this would have ever happened in the first place, _Mrs. Ryan_."

Diane is stunned. She flails for a reply, and finding none turns her head away. Jasmine continues to glare at her, lips turned is disgust. Diane studies her nails in deliberate ignorance of Jasmine's gaze.

"You know, I think I'm feeling much better now," says Jasmine haughtily, pulling the bag away from her face. She stands up, gripping the table for stability as to her chagrin the room is sent into a dizzying array of stars that she struggles to ignore. "You can go now," she says slowly, "Mrs. Ryan."

"Diane."

Jasmine frowns, and the creasing of her brow causes such pain it forces her to sit back down.

"What?" 

"Diane," Diane repeats. "It's my name. If we're trading insults you might as well use it. And you're right," she admits with a sigh, unfolding her arms so her wrists rest on the table, "I don't know him."

Jasmine frowns again and shuffles in her seat, uncertain of how to handle such apologetic honesty.

"Okay then, Diane, I um... Thank you for agreeing with me, but I really do think I'm feeling much better now."

. "You don't look it," sniffs Diane, leaning back and folding her arms again.

Jasmine glares at her.

"But I suppose I'd better leave anyway," Diane drawls, standing up. Jasmine nods, and Diane turns to walk primly out of the room. She's at the kitchen doorframe when Jasmine softly calls her name.

"What?" asks Diane obtrusively.

"I, uh... Thank you, for coming," replies Jasmine, voice softening. "Really."

Diane sighs, then looks at Jasmine gently, eyes finally focusing on the swelling on her temples. The bruise is bigger than she was expecting.

"Don't mention it..." she replies distractedly.

Jasmine notices where she's looking and places one hand over her forehead.

"Is it really that bad?" she asks, voice high with concern.

Diane shakes her head, then makes eye contact once more.

"Nothing a little make-up can't fix," she replies, with forced brightness. "Oh, and about the rug. Is tomorrow afternoon a good time from them to come over?"

Jasmine frowns.

"What are you going to say happened?"

"I'll just tell them Andrei ordered it. Trust me, once they've heard that they won't ask any questions."

"But what if he tries to replace it himself..."

Jasmine's voice trails off into silence, and neither of them say anything for a time. Diane purses her lips. 

"I'll... I'll figure something out." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Look," sighs Diane, "I don't want to make your life worse than it already is. Let me send a cleaner around, at least." Jasmine tries another weak smile, but her cheek grows hot and angry and she relaxes her face. 

"Thank you." 

Diane nods slightly. 

"I'll get going then. Shall I see myself out?"

"Oh... yeah," Jasmine blinks, looking back at Diane, "I'll see you... later, I guess."


End file.
